Even in our darkest hours
by ForEru'sSake
Summary: In the dark dungeons of Tol-in-Gaurhoth Finrod waits for the wolves to come and kill him. It was his fate to die there, in his own fortress. In the darkness he remembers something his father told him. That nothing is set in stone. Even in his darkest hours, Finrod Felagund clings to the knowledge that he is the master of his own future, and of Beren's.


**A/N:** Rated M just to be safe, for a rather graphic (but short) description of the battle between Finrod and the wolf.

 **Even in our darkest hours**

It was dark.

So very dark.

It was as if the darkness was a solid weight, filling up the cell, pushing down on his body, suffocating him.

It reminded him of the way those who had been there when the light of the Trees went out described the darkness that had followed to the later generations. How he himself had explained it to Finduilas, when Orodreth had refused to tell her.

 _That darkness was more than a loss of light. In that hour was made a Darkness that seemed not lack but a thing with being of its own: for it was indeed made by malice out of light, and it had the power to pierce the eye, and to enter heart and mind, and strangle the very will._

So it was with this darkness.

As the late king of Nargothrond sat there, trapped in a prison of his own building, with his arms chained to the wall, he felt like that darkness alone might be enough to force him into insanity.

He didn't know for sure how long they had been there, the only indication of the passing of time being the screams of their companions as they were mauled to death by hungry werewolves. One every day. That is what their captor had said, but he trusted the Lieutenant of Morgoth about as far as he could throw him, which wasn't far, seeing as he could barely lift his arms. He had tried to count, once, having nothing else to do but to wait in fearful silence for the supposed day to be over and the wolves to return. He had tried, but he didn't trust his sleep-deprived, daylight-starved brain to count properly, and there had been too many things on his mind to concentrate.

He didn't know exactly where in the fortress of Minas Tirith they were. When it was first build, there had been no dungeons. "We won't need them," he had said to Edrahil, who had asked about it when Finrod had first shown him his designs for the fortress' layout, "I take no prisoners."

The other Elf had laughed at it then, convincing him to at least reinforce some of the walls of the cellars, just in case.

Minas Tirith had never held any prisoners. At least not during his stay there. Maybe it had, during Orodreth's, if so, his nephew had never told him. The fortress had been built to keep the enemy out, not keep him locked inside.

He remembered standing on the walls with Edrahil by his side, discussing this very subject. He had remarked how contradictory it would be for a place of such beauty to be used as a prison. Edrahil had been hard put to remind his lord, his friend, that Minas Tirith wasn't a palace. It was a stronghold, meant to protect the borders against any who would try to invade the land.

That same friend was now lying on the ground, chained to the wall somewhere to his left. His rasping breath was frighteningly loud, but it was the only thing reminding Finrod that he was not alone.

Of the twelve who had left Nargothrond to go on this quest, only three were still alive.

That was the only thing he knew for sure.

Enveloped in the cold darkness as they were, he couldn't see his companions, but he could feel them. When he closed his eyes and willed himself to calm he could feel their weakened spirits cling to life. He could feel Edrahil through the bond of his oath of service, he could feel Beren through the oath he had given to the boy's father, and that was enough.

He didn't know what the room they were in looked like, but he supposed he didn't want to know.

His other senses told him enough.

When he put his hands to the ground he felt a wet stickiness. Too thick to be water, too slick to be mud. The acrid, metallic smell of it had been nearly unbearable at first. Now, he barely noticed it anymore. He barely noticed the smell of the rotting corpses of his companions. He was barely aware of the sound of bones cracking under his weight every time he moved. He barely felt the iron manacles biting into the skin of his wrists, the dried clods of blood and mud in his hair, the rough stone of the wall scraping his back to a bloody mess every time he tried to settle in a different position.

Sitting in the dark, he thought of Bëor. He thought of that fateful night, so many years ago, when he had first met the Secondborn, and had instantly fallen in love with them. He thought of Barahir, who had saved him from certain death, risking his own life and that of his men to do it. He thought of young Beren, sitting next to him, who had dropped everything to go on this quest he didn't fully understand, because he loved Lúthien more than he loved his own life.

He sat in the dark and listened. He listened to Edrahil's laboured breathing and Beren's soft sobs, the hopelessness of their situation seeming to have finally caught up with him. He listened to the sound of water dripping from the ceiling, of rats scurrying to and fro among the rotting corpses. He listened to the sound of wolves howling in the distance and knew instinctively that it was nearly time again.

In silence, they waited. The howling became louder, the rats grew restless.

Yes, it was time. Time for one of them to die.

The door opened, the wolf growled, jumped, Beren screamed.

The sound of flesh ripping, bones snapping, chains rattling. The guttural sound of a man drowning in his own blood.

The wolf retreated, the door closed.

The sound of sobbing.

Finrod closed his eyes. It was gone. His bond with Edrahil had been severed. He was dead.

He wanted to scream, he would have, if he could. He cursed under his breath. Using his voice, even as little as that, left him coughing and gasping for breath.

Instead he lifted his hands to his face, that was as far as the chains would allow, and wept.

 _Edrahil, forgive me._

He didn't know how long they had been there. It must've been ten days, but it could just as well have been ten years.

He wondered what it was like, dying. It could not be much worse than this. It would hurt more, he was sure, but it would also be over more quickly.

He wouldn't mind dying here. He didn't have a life left to return to.

So he sat in the dark, and waited.

Beren tried to talk to him, once.

"Finrod," he whispered, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, please forgive me."

He sounded so afraid, so vulnerable, and so young.

"Please…" he had begged, nearly in tears.

But Finrod couldn't speak.

He merely sighed and rested his head in his hands.

Beren didn't try to talk to him again.

He didn't know how much time went by. Beren had stopped sobbing, but he could still hear the young Man breathing. Judging by the sound of howling wolves the Man would not be breathing much longer.

The cell-door opened, they were momentarily blinded by the light coming from the torch-lit corridor, and then it was dark again.

They were not alone. Not anymore.

He could hear the wolf's breathing. He could see the amber coloured eyes, staring at them from across the room.

That should have been impossible, there was no light in the room for the creature's eyes to reflect.

So many things had happened that should have been impossible.

He had survived the crossing of the Helcaraxë.

He had founded a kingdom.

He had lost that kingdom to the clever schemes of his cousin.

He had held out against Sauron for so much longer than he should have, when they battled each other with their Songs.

So many things that should have been impossible, but had happened nonetheless.

He had always known it would end like this. He had the power of foresight. All the children of Finarfin had inherited it to some extent. Finrod's wasn't nearly as strong as his father's, but he had known. His father's gift was remarkable. The gift of foresight was rare, even among the Eldar, but his father had mastered it at a young age. He had taught himself to _see_ clearly, taught himself to guide his dreams towards the future, even to call forth visions of specific times in the future when he was awake. Finrod had always wondered if his father had seen it all coming. If he had _seen_ the Darkening, _seen_ his father Finwë's death, the Oath, the rebellion, Alqualondë, if he had heard the Doom, whispered in his ears while he slept, long before the Lord of Mandos uttered it aloud. And, if so, why he hadn't done anything to stop it from happening.

 _We are the masters of our own future, Findaráto._

Finarfin had taught him.

 _Sometimes, we_ see _things, terrible visions, that we would rather not come true. Nightmarish visions that leave us shaking, that make us forget how to breathe. But remember, those visions we_ see _are_ possible _futures, not absolutes. Nothing is set in stone, unless we believe it to be._

And so, here he was. He had _seen_ those terrible visions his father had spoken of. He had seen visions of a dark dungeon, of blood and pain and sharp, glistening teeth in hairy maws. He had seen all that, and he had accepted it to be inevitable.

He could hear Beren's terrified breathing, the wolf's soft, menacing growl. He could hear the creature shifting it's paws on the bloody floor, claws scraping the stone. He could almost feel the beast's muscles tense, ready to pounce.

 _Nothing is set in stone, unless we believe it to be._

In his visions, he had been the last one to die. In his visions, Beren had died first. Unlike Edrahil , who had been silent, he would die screaming, crying, fighting till his last breath.

When he threw the crown of Nargothrond at his cousins' feet he had known that he would not live to tell the tale of their quest. He had known that he would die, locked in a dungeon. He had known all that.

 _Nothing is set in stone, unless we believe it to be._

He had left Nargothrond with Beren and ten others, believing that his fate had been sealed, that his death was inevitable.

It was.

But the way by which he would die was not.

 _We are the masters of our own future, Findaráto._

The wolf bared its teeth, growled, and jumped.

Its teeth never met their target.

With all the strength he could muster, Finrod pulled at the chains. He pulled, and pulled, and somehow, they gave way. He threw himself at the wolf, wrapped his arms around the creature's neck, and squeezed.

The beast snarled and twisted in the Elf's grasp.

Finrod barely felt the claws digging into his flesh, the blood flowing freely from the gaping wounds.

He didn't know what he had intended to do, but it didn't matter. His strength was quickly leaving him and he knew that, if he lost, if he died, Beren would, too.

His heart was racing, his blood was pounding in his ears, adrenalin rushing through his veins, and he could think of only one thing to do.

 _Kill it._

The wolf howled as Finrod sunk his teeth into its throat.

 ** _Kill it._**

He wildly threw his head, tearing at the flesh, burrowing into it, ripping every artery, showering himself in the wolf's blood, until he clamped his teeth down on the creature's trachea.

 ** _KILL IT!_**

The body convulsed once more in his arms and then everything was silent.

He let go.

He was vaguely aware of the taste of the wolfs blood on his tongue, of the stickiness of it, covering his face and throat, the smell of it, drowning out even the stench of the rotting corpses of their companions.

Nothing could have prepared him for the pain.

I was overwhelming.

"Finrod!" Beren called out.

Finrod barely felt the Man grabbing hold of his shoulders and shaking him.

"Finrod, stay with me."

He couldn't feel his legs anymore. It was like he was floating. Every breath he took was more difficult than the last.

Still, he gathered his strength once more and willed himself to speak, even though it tore his throat apart. When he spoke, he spoke in the same formal way with which he had greeted Beren when he first came to Nargothrond:

"I go now to my long rest in the timeless halls beyond the seas and the Mountains of Aman. It will be long ere I am seen among the Noldor again; and it may be that we shall not meet a second time in death or life, for the fates of our kindreds are apart."

He did not feel Beren's tears dripping onto his face.

He closed his eyes and let out a last shuddering breath.

"Farewell."

Beren sobbed.

He did not know how long he sat there, stunned into immobility.

Suddenly he heard the sounds of a battle. Far away, outside the walls of the fortress.

"Beren!" screamed a voice. He instantly recognized it.

"Lúthien!" he called back.

He looked at the body in his arms, and then at the open cell-door.

"I'm sorry, my friend, I'm so sorry."

He carefully lowered Finrod's already cold body to the ground and stood.

"I would have died here today, without you."

 _Nothing is set in stone, unless we believe it to be._

He didn't know where the words came from, but he felt comforted by them.

"Beren, I'm coming!" he heard Lúthien call out.

He ran towards the sound of her voice, followed it until he saw the light.

"Farewell, Finrod, I don't know what will happen next, but it never would've happened without you," He said aloud.

 _We are the masters of our own future, Beren, never forget that._

Then, he saw her.

"Lúthien!" he called out and ran towards her.

She seemed to glow in the rays of Anor.

She was bright

So very bright.

She threw her arms around him.

"Come, we must go, we have history to write," she said.

He felt suddenly confident. He thought of Finrod. Of his kind smile, his bravery, his wisdom. He would not let the once King of Nargothrond down. His sacrifice would not be in vain.

"No," he said, "we have a future to build."

 **A/N:**

Quotes:

 _"That darkness ... the very will."_ \- J.R.R. Tolkien, the Silmarillion Chapter 8, of the Darkening of Valinor.

 _"I go now ... are apart."_ \- J.R.R. Tolkien, the Silmarillion Chapter 19, Of Beren and Lúthien.

Thank you for reading this, reviews are always appreciated :)


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